


A Strange Pact

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-09-28 10:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17180927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: “Then let us seal the bargain. Give me your name.” It is not necessary for all deals, but for this one, which the Gentleman intends to seal firmly, it is.“I am Jonathan Strange,” the man says. He offers his hand.Or, the AU where Jonathan is the "first magician" and on resurrecting Emma Pole, he takes the Gentleman up on his offer.





	1. The pact is made.

“Who are you, to summon me?”

The man who seems to be the culprit does not, to the Gentleman, appear particularly impressive. His clothes are nice, certainly—not as colorful or adorned as the Gentleman would prefer but stylish in a more subdued sort of way—and his manner is confident, but still…he is so damn young. And his smile at the Gentleman is not just smug, as every magician’s smile tends to be. It has an eager innocence to it, as if he’s pleased to have been asked a question to which he has the answer.

“I am a magician. An, um, practical magician. There are not many of us in England these days, but I’ve been…sort of trying to bring magic back.” He tilts his head. “I must say it’s an honor to meet you. Fairies have not been very much around in a long time.”

“Three hundred years,” the Gentleman observes. “And yet you somehow manage to summon me. You, a mere boy.” He steps closer to where the man sits on the edge of a table. “Who is your master?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have one of those,” the man says apologetically. “Though one would be rather helpful. My spells…I cannot always control them.”

The Gentleman snorts. “Then how did you summon me here?”

“I, well. I have some books. A couple at least.” He shrugs. “I have been practicing magic for several months…”

“Several _months_?”

The man nods cagily, smile beginning to falter as if he suspects this is the wrong answer.

The Gentleman stares at him. The Raven King himself took years to learn his art, and this boy… This boy is dangerous. Any magic in human hands, without his guidance, is dangerous in the first place. It is a good thing this man has summoned him.

It occurs to him he might know who the man is after all. There are prophecies of two magicians who will return magic to England. This can only be the first, and more powerful. He clenches a fist behind his back, long fingernails scraping his palms. This upstart will require careful handling. It’s lucky he seems to be quite naïve.

“In your books,” he says, “did you read about us, then? The Fair Folk?”

“That you are at the root of magic, and you understand it better than we ever can, yes,” the man says eagerly. He leans forward. “And seeing you, I cannot help but know it is true.”

“We will have to discuss this further.” The Gentleman smiles encouragingly. “But did you summon me here for a reason?”

The man starts. “Oh! Yes. Yes, I am sorry, how stupid of me to allow myself to be distracted.” He hops off the table and gestures to a bed. It is canopied and solemn, even within this solemn, quiet room. On it lays a woman covered in a shroud.

“I want,” the man says, “to bring this woman back to life. They say you can do that.”

The Gentleman nods. “It is not beyond my power. But if I should bring her back to life, what would be my reward?”

“Oh yes, the equal exchange.” The man rubs his chin. “I do not know what I have that would equal the value of a life, nor do I know what you might desire. Do you have any suggestions?”

This is all far too easy. The Gentleman clears his throat. “My wishes are the most moderate thing in the world. I simply wish to be able to aid you in all your magical endeavors, to advise you in all matters of magic and to guide your studies. Oh, and you must take care to tell the world that your greatest achievements are due in large part to me.”

The man’s eyes widen. “Then…you wish to be my fairy servant?”

It is a crude way of putting it, but perhaps seeming subservient will put the fool off his guard. “I would like nothing more. Living only among the fae has become boring. I crave variety.”

“It seems to me this bargain favors me more than you.”

“I did tell you I am a humble man.”

“You are a generous one.” The foolish smile again. “I…I will accept your bargain, and be glad for your companionship. It would be my greatest wish as well.”

“Then let us seal the bargain. Give me your name.” It is not necessary for all deals, but for this one, which the Gentleman intends to seal firmly, it is.

“I am Jonathan Strange,” the man says. He offers his hand. The Gentleman does not take it, though he examines it—fair but not as soft as one might expect from most gentlemen, but with nails short and even a little dirty.

He raises his eyes again. The man, Jonathan, boldly stares back. He says, “Then the deal is done. The lady lives.”

And with a choking gasp, she sits upright and begins to scream.

* * *

 

The evening that follows is bustling but entertaining. The Gentleman has not been in the company of so many humans at once, all able to perceive him, in centuries. They all make much of his odd appearance. Some of them cast suspicious eyes, not at him, but at Jonathan, who bears it all with the same awkwardly foppish smile. He recedes into the background; everyone knows it is the Gentleman who has worked this marvel, not him. It will be like this from now on. He does not mind now, but the Gentleman wonders if he might mind later, and rather suspects he will.

The humans are mostly not very interesting. They are very stupid, loudly exclaiming each other’s names, though that will not matter since the names are still not _given_ to the Gentleman and thus he cannot use them. There is only one human he finds interesting, and that is Jonathan’s wife, a  thin woman named Arabella. She is practical if congratulatory, and the Gentleman finds her quite charming.

On the coach ride to the couple’s home, Jonathan tells her that the Gentleman will be living with them from now on.

“For how long?”

“For…” Jonathan waves his hands and looks at the Gentleman for guidance.

“For as long as the bargain lasts,” the Gentleman says. “Deals with names as currency have a tendency to stick.” For as long as your husband lives, is the answer, but he does not think she would appreciate this truth.

“May I know your name?”

The Gentleman smiles. “No.”

“You are a bit rude.”

“He will be helping me with my magic, dear,” Jonathan says. So quick to cut his wife off—tut tut. “It’s traditional for magicians to consort with fairies. The Raven King did it, after all.”

“I suppose he did.” Arabella gives the Gentleman a long look. “Very well. You may stay with us for now.”

For the rest of the ride he learns more about their household and how it is run, all very quaint and dull. The house itself, when they arrive, is not all that interesting either, though Jonathan gives him a tour with great enthusiasm. “We’ll need to choose a room for you,” he says when the tour is done.

“I do not sleep, and I do not think I will require a room,” the Gentleman says. “I have lodgings in the fairy realm. If I need solitude I will return there.”

“Ah,” Jonathan says. “Of course. The fairy realm. Quite.”

He would interrogate the Gentleman all night, most likely, but Arabella persuades him to go to bed. The Gentleman lingers outside their door for a while and hears muffled argument followed by sounds considerably less rational. They are not long wed, he can tell. How disgusting to have to deal with that kind of enthusiasm. His own tastes are far more controlled and refined.

Before wandering back to the fairy realm for the night, he goes to visit the woman he has resurrected. He has no claim on her, of course, his deal being only with Jonathan. Still, she is quite a beauty, and because of him she is alive. He admires her invisibly as she celebrates with her husband long into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

Norrell has been watching the exploits of Mr. Jonathan Strange from afar.

At first when the papers started declaring the feats of a really successful, practical magician, he had his doubts. After all, he should be the only real magician in England. Yet, at the same time, he knew it was technically possible. There is no reason another person would not be able to learn the same spells as he. It is only that he doubted anyone else would have that dedication—or be able to find the books.

So he watched the papers skeptically. But the more grandiose the feats they listed, the more he began to believe Jonathan Strange might really be a practical magician. It seemed ridiculous, of course—the papers reported the man to be only in his twenties, much too young for a successful magician, never mind the barrenness of England in modern times. Still…

Still, he reads whatever articles come out on Strange devotedly. He’s not a fan, of course. That would be juvenile. But the course of English magic concerns him greatly, and he wants to know what will happen with this man who has come forward publicly as a worker of great magic. And the news is always interesting. It’s almost enough to rouse him out of his house and send him off to London, as Childermass would doubtless love. He’s not quite there yet, but he’s close.

“Another article on Strange today,” Childermass says, depositing a paper on Norrell’s desk, where he is rereading a book and taking fresh notes. He hesitates, not liking to abandon his studies while in the middle of them, then pushes them aside.

Childermass has an odd expression on his face. Usually he’s amused when he gives Norrell such things, occasionally a bit annoyed or bored. But today he’s on edge. Norrell purses his lips as he reads the headline, finding the source of his tension. “STRANGE INTRODUCES FAIRY SERVANT TO SOCIETY.”

He lets out a breath. Strange can’t have…

No, no one as successful, as respected as Strange could possibly be so foolish. He reads further.

“Jonathan Strange has achieved yet another marvel, perhaps the greatest yet. You may remember our recently printing the obituary of the esteemed Walter Pole’s fiancée. It seems we spoke too soon, for the lady is now alive, well and happy, and it is because of Jonathan Strange. Well, Strange and a certain new friend. Strange is quoted as saying, ‘Without the help of the Gentleman, I could have done nothing. He saved the woman—I was merely a conduit. But in a way all magicians are merely conduits for magic.’ Humble and wise as always, Mr. Strange! But though we doubt his role could have been insignificant, the Gentleman is certainly a sight to behold. He is a fairy servant but he acts like a normal man, and is willing and well able to converse on any subject. He has informed our reporters that he intends, at Mr. Strange’s side of course, to change the course of English magic entirely, and to revive…”

Norrell puts the paper down. “No. No no no no no. Childermass, this cannot possibly be true.”

“It’s a reputable newspaper, sir.”

“Why would Jonathan Strange…”

“We know very little about Mr. Strange,” Childermass says. “And in the newspapers he always does say that he knows little enough about magic, and largely does it through guesswork…”

“Humility. No one can possibly achieve feats like that,” though they all tended to be crude and showmanlike, in Norrel’s opinion, “without a good, solid, academic background. He can’t possibly not know the dangers of consorting with fairies.”

“He could. Apparently he does, or he is very stupid. Or both.” Childermass crosses his arms. “I did say before he seems young and reckless, and could probably use the advice of a more experienced magician.”

“Childermass, you can’t possibly blame me for this.”

“No, but the blame is not entirely Strange’s either. He’s been stumbling in the dark with his magic. Sooner or later he was bound to make a mistake.”

“This is not a mistake. This is an atrocity. This is…”

Childermass sighs. “You should go to London, sir. It might not be too late to talk to Strange, bring him to his senses.”

Norrell bites his lip. London is a frightening prospect in itself, far from the things he knows. The thought of confronting a foolish but respected magician is worse, and dealing with a fairy is worst of all. But he can’t let a fairy gain sway over English magic, over England itself. It seems he has no choice.

“I suppose I can finally use the family house there,” he says, eyes still glued to the paper. “We’ll have to find someone trustworthy to transport my books.”

* * *

 

In London, he is only known to a few. A while back he impressed the York Society of Magicians, got in the papers briefly, and called a little attention to himself. A man named Drawlight has sent him a few letters as a result, and another named Lascelles. But other than them, his connections are sparse, and he has no intention on connecting with two men who, judging by the rumors, are now cringing sycophants to Jonathan Strange.

Instead, he goes to a man who supports Strange but certainly could never be called a sycophant, Lord Walter Pole.

“You say you are a practical magician?”

“Yes,” Norrell says. “Yes, I am.”

“We love magicians,” says Lady Pole. She is sprawled out on the couch, and smiles at Norrell generously. “Even before my illness I always loved street performers. Obviously Mr. Strange is a different sort of magician, but I feel we are now indebted to any sort.”

_You are indebted to an inhuman monster_ , Norrell thinks, but considering it too aggressive, he instead clears his throat and says, “I am a magician similar to Mr. Strange. My skills are practical and academic.”

“Mr. Strange is not much for academia,” Lord Walter says with a twitch of his eyebrow.

“Well he should be,” Norrell mutters. Out loud he says, “Shall I demonstrate some magic to you?” In the past he would have considered it beneath him; he’s not a performing monkey. But Strange’s magic has been so ostentatious that without some proof he’s unlikely to gain credibility. And with how Strange has stained the name of magic, Norrell can hardly damage it further.

“Certainly. Go ahead.”

Norrell takes his time with it. From what he’s heard, Strange is slap-dash, but he need not follow Strange’s example in everything. He uses the spell to see what an enemy is doing. When the mirror clears, it shows a clear view of a parlor. A young man with long brown hair sits over a bowl, staring into it. Behind him stands a taller man with white hair that stands straight up, gesturing at the water. He says something, and the brown haired man laughs.

“Well!” Lord Walter’s eyebrows raise. “I declare, a vision of Jonathan Strange himself. That man should get himself warded against spies. Still, that is certainly real magic. A practical magician it seems you are.”

“I did say so.”

“What spell was it?”

Again, to declare himself Strange’s enemy does not seem politic. “A spell to see the person you are thinking of,” Norrell says with a small smile. It’s true enough that Strange has been constantly on his mind.

“Quite something.” Lord Walter nods. “Would you mind telling me something about the extent of your abilities? Your force added to Strange’s could be very helpful with our present crisis.”

“Oh. Well, certainly. But…I’m afraid I am not here for that.”

“Then, begging your pardon, sir, what are you here for?”

“I came to warn you about what Jonathan Strange has been doing.”

“What?”

“I heard he’s summoned a fairy servant. Fairies are very dangerous, sir. They take advantage of bargains, and twist magic beyond what is proper or right. For the good of English magic and England, I don’t think you should be associating with such a creature.”

“Is that so?”

Lord Walter’s eyes are chilly and Norrell quails, but he stands firm. “Yes, yes it is.”

“I’ll tell you something, then. That creature saved my wife. And he and Strange are currently our best chance at winning the war.” Lord Walter turns around. “Your little espionage tricks are not bad, but I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

So Norrell leaves. He should never have come to London. He tells Childermass this in the coach.

“Lord Walter was a long shot in the first place,” Childermass says. “You need to talk to Strange himself.”

Norrell sighs. He doesn’t want to. He very much doesn’t want to.

* * *

 

He puts off going to visit Strange for a few days, ignoring Childermass’s meaningful looks that are beginning to border on glares. Then the unexpected happens: Jonathan Strange comes to visit _him_.

He almost doesn’t believe the butler when he’s told. But he goes down to the parlor and there Strange is, in the flesh. Hair slightly mussed but still fluffy and clean, slightly tired eyes but a smile on his face, and a fashionable suit that shows Lord Walter was right—this is a social butterfly, not an academic. He looks plainer than Norrell once imagined from the papers, but accurate to the vision in the mirror. Norrell examines him, then offers him a wary welcome.

“I was delighted to hear of another practical magician in London,” Strange says. “Frankly, it’s marvelous to hear of another practical magician at all. You can’t imagine how lost I am.”

He offers a hand and Norrell shakes it.

“I expect you heard of my presence from Lord Pole.” In which case, he is being incredibly polite, as it’s doubtful Pole said anything good.

“No, from Drawlight. He keeps me up on the magical news. You’ve already visited Lord Walter and not me?”

Norrell finds himself stammering. He’s broken some etiquette he didn’t know existed.

But Strange laughs and says, “No, I’m only teasing, I’m sorry. I’m sure you can be useful in the war efforts. My own efforts so far are not as successful as I’d like. Most of my spells are very short range—it’s a result of improvising, I suppose. I hear you’re an academic.”

“Yes. I have studied magic for many years. There are many books that can be of some use.”

“Yet they are so hard to obtain. Whenever I try to buy them, I find them already gone. In such high demand, even in a world where magic is absent.”

Norrell bites his lip. He does not mention that in fact the person grabbing up these books is himself and no other. There is no general demand for books on magic, but there is a very specific demand, and Norrell has been devouring the magic book market for years, even decades.

Childermass, who is present in the corner, gives him an ironic look. Later he’ll use this as another way to blame Norrell for Strange’s misdeeds. Norrell clears his throat. “Well, if you wish to peruse my library, you are welcome. Many of my own books on the subject are in this very house—in fact, in this very room.”

“It’s astounding.” Strange grins. “Quite incredible. I’ve never seen such a collection.”

Norrell, who has not been so flattered since his meeting with John Segundus and Mr. Honeyfoot, flushes. “Well. I have tried my best to maintain it well.”

“The knowledge of all the magicians of centuries past…” Strange’s eyes sweep over the shelves. He is not reading titles, he is merely absorbing the look of the spines. “Of course, the Gentleman has been teaching me old magic, but it’s different. That kind of magic is not human.”

The time has come, the moment has arrived. Childermass gives Norrell an encouraging nod, and Norrell takes a deep breath.

“Mr. Strange, ever since I learned that you took a fairy servant, I have been meaning to speak with you on the matter.”

“Oh? Well, he is certainly an oddity.” Strange tilts his head. “He didn’t come with me today, I’m sorry. I told him I would not be doing magic, and he said he had business to attend to.”

“Doubtless,” Norrell mutters. “Mr. Strange…are you sure you should be associating with that sort? Fairies are very dangerous.”

“So are magicians, and human beings. We all have our dangers. We could kill each other right here if we wanted to. With that letter opener.” Strange gestures with an ingratiating smile. “The Gentleman is…well, a gentleman, Mr. Norrell. I wouldn’t worry.”

“I would!” Norrell leans forward. “Every record of an encounter with fairies ends in disaster.”

Strange frowns. It is the first time he has looked less than friendly. “The story of the Raven King ends in glory.”

“No, it ends in abandonment and loss. He didn’t glorify English magic, Mr. Strange. He ruined it and left us with the ruins.” Norrell takes another breath. “And all other stories of fairies, too, involve trickery and…”

“Are you telling me I should get rid of the Gentleman?”

“Yes.” Norrell pauses and straightens himself. His task half-done now, he feels quite righteous. “That is indeed what I am telling you.”

“Well, I can’t.” Strange laughs awkwardly. “We’re a bit entangled, you see. And he’s teaching me magic. Half the things I do I could never do without him. He’s offered marvelous insight into war tactics.”

“He may seem kind and useful now,” Norrell says, “but in time he will ruin you. Be rid of him. His influence on English magic—which I am proud to see you reviving—is a stain that will remain as long as he does.”

Strange is quiet for a moment. Then he stands and says, “I am afraid the stain will remain then. But I hope it will not discourage you from helping us with the war effort.” He bows slightly. “Good day, Mr. Norrell.”


End file.
